


Threads That Are Golden

by Mount_Seleya



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Angst, Apocalypse, Bad Future, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family Drama, Psychological Horror, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-06 20:42:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mount_Seleya/pseuds/Mount_Seleya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One by one, fate broke the threads binding her heart to the world, until there was nothing but ruin. Bad future!female Robin/Chrom. Heavy angst interspersed with fluff. Major spoilers for the game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Purpose

**Author's Note:**

> There's nothing like a vague canonical alternate timeline to set plot bunnies propagating like mad in one's head. The game provides little information on Robin's childhood, so in the first two chapters, I've attempted to fill in the blanks. The male character who figures in these bildungsroman segments is of my own invention. 
> 
> The concluding chapter(s) of this fic will feature major angst and post-apocalyptic horror (probably of a more psychological variety, though, since I'm averse to intense violence or gore, even in written fiction). I'm providing advance warning in the hope of preventing the occurrence of mood whiplash, as the middle chapters are, by turns, rather fluffy. Of course, if you've completed the game, then you know what happens in the bad future.
> 
> The title hails from from a line in the final verse of the characteristically cryptic song "Horses" by Tori Amos: "And if there is a way to find you, I will find you/ But will you find me / If Neil makes me a tree / An afro, a pharaoh/ I can't go, you said so / But threads that are golden don't break easily."

Doubt enters her heart for the first time the instant the midwife sets the squalling, red-faced infant in her arms.  
  
When her husband strides into her bedchamber an hour later, she holds their now-placid daughter up to him with a hopeful smile, and he plucks the child from her grasp with a kind of detached, scientific curiosity. Then the baby curls her tiny, marked fist around his talonlike finger, and at last he smiles as a new father should.  
  
After a minute, the new mother reaches up to take the baby back, but her husband only gives her an imperious glare. "You are not to coddle her," he warns. "It shall only interfere with her purpose."  
  
With a swish of his bruise-coloured robes, he is gone from the room, taking their daughter with him.  
  
In the company of nothing but her own thoughts, her doubt turns to despair, then anger, then — finally — a plan.  



	2. Curiosity's Price

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a minor call back to a plot element from _Radiant Dawn_ in this chapter. According to Fire Emblem canon, _RD_ and _Path of Radiance_ are set in a different universe than _Awakening_ , but this is the kind of thing that could easily carry over. Kudos if you spot it. :)

It is a rare sunny day in the northern reaches of Ferox. Head cushioned against the rough road by a sack of grain, Robin idly listens to the creak of the wagon's wheels, her tiny right hand splayed against the azure ceiling of the sky. The strange red sigil which mars the hand's back stares down at her with its sixfold gaze.  
  
"Mother?" she broaches, overwhelmed by the voracious curiosity that comes with being five. "What do they mean? The eyes?"  
  
Mother sucks in a sharp breath that sounds like a hiss of pain. "Nothing," she answers. "It's just a birthmark."  
  
Robin knows better than to further interrupt her mother's afternoon sword-polishing ritual.

 

* * *

  
  
The bazaar is a riot of colours and sounds and smells such as Robin has never before experienced. On either side of where she stands presently are two stalls, one selling opulent fabrics, the other exotic spices. Shimmery bolts of silk vie fiercely for her attention against an army of little clay pots brimming with the likes of cinnamon and myrrh.  
  
"Anything caught your fancy?" Mother asks. Whispers of war brewing between Ferox's southern neighbours have left the purse at her hip heavy with the coin of anxious merchants eager to secure the services of a sellsword.  
  
Robin purses her lips thoughtfully for a moment, then shakes her head and says, "Not yet."  
  
Mother smiles and laughs gently. "Well, it's not every day a girl turns eight, is it? Let us continue the hunt!"  
  
At a tiny, cluttered antiques stall at the far end of the bazaar, Robin finally spies something of interest. It is a small, foldable chessboard, ebony and ivory inlay with delicate silver hinges and simple yet elegant pieces.  
  
"This is what I would like, Mother," she declares, filled with a sudden, inexplicable sense of purpose.

 

* * *

  
  
Light from the crackling campfire dances across Magnus's wizened visage, painting his long, scraggly white beard in flickering reds and oranges as Robin sits across from him, his oversized cloak draped loosely over her shoulders. Robin's chessboard lays between them on a tree stump. Two hard years on the road have left it the worse for wear.  
  
"Well, girl, make your move," Magnus goads in his deep, hoarse voice. "Your men aren't getting any younger."  
  
With a small, impish smile, Robin plucks a rook off of the board and sets it down on another square. "Checkmate."  
  
Magnus lets out a rough bark of laughter and turns to Mother. "And you'd have this one settle down to life as a humble shepherdess in some tumbledown little cottage you plan to buy in the mountains of Ferox?"  
  
Mother's jaw clenches. "I will see you into Ylisse. How I elect to spend your gold thereafter does not concern you."  
  
"Oh, but it does," the elderly sage retorts in a gravelly growl. "You would squander this poor child's great potential. A Spirit Charmer gifted with such cunning should rightly lead an army to its victory."  
  
"What's a Spirit Charmer?' Robin ventures to ask, despite the stern glare Mother shoots her.  
  
"Your hand, girl," Magnus answers, eyes softening as he meets her curious gaze. "Mark of a Spirit Charmer, that is. I once served as chief tactician to the West-Khan. I would be glad to bequeath my knowledge to you."  
  
" _No_ ," Mother says firmly. "My daughter need never know the scourge of war."  
  
Magnus gives a throaty harrumph. "But she has the makings of a master strategist. Surely, that is her destiny."  
  
Abruptly, Mother rears up onto her haunches, drawing an alarmed squeak from Robin as she swings her arm out and sends the chessboard flying into the air, its hinged halves flapping like wings as pieces scatter every which way.  
  
"To hell with fate!" she shrieks, the board landing with a noisy clatter. "To hell with all the death and ruin it brings!"  
  
A minute of fraught silence passes before Magnus speaks. "I beg your forgiveness. I understand now that you are a mother first and a warrior second, but I ask you at least allow me to teach her magic, to round out your sword training. I can spare a few tomes from my supply, and you can never be too careful, not with so many brigands about."  
  
"Mother, _please_ ," Robin says imploringly. "I want to learn everything I can so I can be strong like you."  
  
After a moment's consideration, Mother gives a curt nod, and Robin leaps up gleefully and pulls her into a hug.

 

* * *

  
  
Robin snaps the borrowed strategy text closed. She lets her gaze trail off into the distance. Wispy, low-bearing clouds are drifting across the late afternoon sky, casting shadows across the faraway grassy foothills.  
  
"Mother?" she says, turning her head to where the woman is busy running an oiled rag over her trusted blade.  
  
"Hmm?" Mother murmurs, not lifting her eyes from the task with which she is occupied.  
  
Robin draws in a deep, steadying breath, feeling her resolve strengthen as the crisp spring air fills her lungs. "I think I'd like to become Magnus's apprentice,” she states, the words pouring out of her in a breathless rush. "I'd like to stay in Ylisstol when we get there and help him with the shop he's going to open and learn everything he can teach me."  
  
At this, Mother lays down her sword, turning a weary gaze toward Robin. "This country is at war."  
  
Robin's eyes rove over the peaceful countryside once more. "It certainly doesn't _look_ like it's at war, Mother."  
  
Mother sighs softly. "But it is, love, whether it seems so to your eyes or not," she says. "And I would not have my only daughter tarry in a nation that it is at war with Plegia any longer than absolutely necessary."  
  
"I'm not a little girl, Mother," Robin protests.  
  
"You are _ten_ ," Mother reminds her flatly.  
  
Robin tugs at the wrist of one of the gloves Mother recently insisted she start wearing. "I'll be eleven next month."  
  
"That's still a very long way from no longer being a little girl in my book."  
  
"With all that you and Magnus have taught me so far, I bet I could take care of myself pretty good, Mother."  
  
Squeezing her eyes shut, Mother lets out a noise halfway between a sigh and a sob, her hands balling into tight fists. "It's not a matter of the threat that the world poses to you, but rather —" she says, stopping short.  
  
Robin's brow crinkles in confusion. "What is it, Mother?" she asks. "What's wrong?"  
  
Standing abruptly, Mother says, "Nothing. Now, come. I'm sure that Magnus's stew is ready by now."

 

* * *

  
  
Clutching the thunder tome to her chest, Robin can do nothing but stand there, numb with cold and shock. Only the still, empty night surrounds her now, making every owl's hoot and cricket's chirp sound massive and strange.  
  
She had heard movement in the woods at the edge of camp and gotten up to investigate. Naive certainty had filled her heart as she slipped between the trees: _I'll chase away whoever’s out there and Mother will see I'm grown up._ But unbeknownst to her, Mother had been close at her heels, as silent as a doe trailing after her wayward fawn.  
  
And so, when Robin stumbled into a clearing and came face-to-face with a black-robed brigand at least double her height, her frightened little squeak had been backed by the familiar _ching_ of Mother's sword unsheathing.  
  
Mother had stepped in front of her calmly and ordered her to run, but fear mingled with the stubborn need to prove she _wasn’t_ afraid had kept Robin rooted to the spot, made her insist, "No, I can help!"  
  
Mother had jerked around quickly and shouted, "Robin, I said run! Go!"  
  
Then Robin had seen the brigand's hand raise behind Mother's turned back and moonlight flash off of a thrown knife. Heard Mother's little grunt of surprise and the soft sound of her body falling face-first in the grass.  
  
Fury had reared up inside of her suddenly and shot out out of her hand in a yellow bolt. The brigand had yelped and toppled, leaving only the smell of blood and ozone in the air, and the hot, bitter sting of tears on her cheeks.  
  
When Magnus finally rouses from his heavy slumber some hours later and comes upon the sad scene, she looks up at him with red-rimmed eyes and rasps, "Mother is gone, and now I'm alone."  
  
Gathering her small, shivering form up in his arms, he whispers, "You're not alone, girl. I promise you that."


	3. The Tempering of a Mind

In the four years that follow the fall of the exalt and the end of the war, the back room of the shop becomes a jumbled labyrinth, overrun with once-prized possessions that down-on-their-luck souls have been forced to pawn.  
  
Magnus doesn't know how to say no to drawn faces and desperate stories. It falls to Robin to run things behind the scenes, keeping track of their inventory, trying to ensure that enough of what wanders in through the front door leaves in different hands for the amount of red ink in the ledgers not to exceed the black most of the time.  
  
Books are the one thing she refuses to sell. They are her window to a world that continues to seem alien and remote. Every night, by the light of a narrow taper, she sits across from Magnus at the rickety dining table in the tiny apartment above the shop and pores over the amassed knowledge of the many generations which came before her.  
  
Whenever someone inquires as to Robin's relation to grizzled sage, he tells them proudly that she is his granddaughter, and, in some ways, this is precisely what she has become to him.  
  
She learns that he has no true family of his own. That his mother, the youngest and least-loved daughter of a minor Ylissean noble house, had eloped one summer with a visiting Feroxi mercenary and never returned to her homeland. Laughingly, he admits that age may have turned him soft, driving him here to Ylisstol in search of his mother's roots.  
  
The parallel rows of eyes that stare up at her from the sleeves of the mage robes that displaced Plegians sometimes bring into the shop lead her to wonder if her own heritage is to be found to the west.

 

* * *

  
  
At last, the day that all of Ylisse has been awaiting arrives, and Emmeryn comes of age and assumes the throne. Hundreds of thousands pour into the streets of the capital to celebrate the occasion.  
  
In the evening, after the last firework has burst in the sky like a flaming flower and the throngs of revelers have largely dispersed, Robin helps guide a wobbly-legged, drunk Magnus home through the confetti-strewn streets. One arm slung over her shoulder, he launches into a slurred rendition of "The Lay of the Hero-King," and soon Robin finds herself singing along, though she doesn't know half the words and can't stop giggling.  
  
It's the happiest she has allowed herself to feel in a long time.  
  
Once they're back in the apartment, Magnus collapses in the armchair in front of the hearth, kicking off his boots. "The new exalt is just a slip of a girl," he comments. "Doesn't seem much older than you."  
  
"I know," Robin says mildly, shrugging off her cloak and hanging it on the coatrack by the door.  
  
"How old are you again?" he asks. The words are slow and heavy; it's evident that his mind is drifting toward sleep.  
  
"Fourteen," Robin answers simply  
  
"You and that royal girl are cut from the same cloth. Both been forced to grow up far too quickly for your own good."  
  
Robin's eyes fall to her feet. "I...I bet she's never killed a man," she falters, choking back a sob.  
  
Magnus rises from the chair and pulls Robin into a hug. "Don’t you go wracking yourself with guilt, girl," he whispers. "You did what had to be done. If anyone's to blame, it's me, for sleeping through something so terrible."

 

* * *

  
  
Wan sunlight filters through the age-warped panes of the window and spills across the breakfast laid out on the table. Far to the west, beyond the sloping roofs of the capital, Robin can see the hazy, snow-capped shadows of the mountains that mark the border with Plegia, and absently wonders what life is like on the other side of them.  
  
Magnus abruptly clears his throat. "The butter, if you please, girl."  
  
"Oh," Robin says with a start. She duly slides the pewter butter tray over to Magnus.  
  
"Something on your mind?" Magnus asks, hand trembling rheumatically as he picks up a knife to butter a scone.  
  
"Yes," Robin answers. "Why haven't you tried reuniting with your mother's kin in the eight years we've been here?"  
  
Magnus laughs roughly. "Bit late for the prodigal son to darken their doorstep, isn't it?"  
  
"Yes, but they're your family, are they not? Your blood. That must count for something, right?"  
  
Magnus sets down the scone unbitten. His clouded eyes focus on her. "Not discussing me any more, are we, girl?"  
  
Robin lets out a startled gasp. "I...no..." she stammers defensively. Then her shoulders slump in defeat. Despite his failing vision, Magnus can still see straight through her, to the truths she would conceal even from herself.  
  
"I suppose you've read enough books by now to figure out that Spirit Charmers exist only in children's tales," he says.  
  
Leather squeaks as Robin's gloved hands clutch the edge of the table. "Why resort to such falsehood?" she asks.  
  
"I wished to train you. To help you realize your full potential for your own sake, and nothing more. But I needed your mother to think that I didn't have an ulterior motive tied to whatever she was fighting so fiercely to protect you from."

* * *

  
  
Robin presses the damp cloth to Magnus's sweat-slick brow. For the past hour, the sage has been drifting in and out of various states of consciousness, his head lolling from side to side on the pillow as he mumbles senseless words.  
  
Suddenly, his feeble grip closes around her hand, letting her know he is lucid once more. "Robin?" he croaks.  
  
With her free hand, Robin takes the cup from the bedside table, holding it to his lips until his thirst has been slaked.  
  
Afterward, Magnus strokes her arm gratefully, smiling up at her blindly. "Between singlehandedly managing the shop and nursemaiding a frail old man on his deathbed, you've been running yourself ragged, girl."  
  
"You need me," Robin says simply.  
  
"Always were a stubborn one," Magnus says fondly. He laughs again, but it quickly turns to hard, hacking coughs.  
  
Robin steadies Magnus by placing a hand on his shoulder. "Do you want me to summon a cleric?"  
  
"To do what, exactly? Hold my hand and chant and pray that Naga or Grima or some lesser god take my soul? My mother never put any stock in religion. I think that's what drew her to Ferox, or more specifically my father."  
  
Robin's gaze drifts from the dying sage. She watches the candle on the nightstand flicker for a moment. Then, in a voice so quiet as to be barely audible even to herself, she says, "I think I shall be lost without you, Magnus."  
  
"You will find your own way," Magnus answers, giving her hand a weak squeeze. "Of that I have no doubt."  
  
"But I don't even know where to begin. What should I do with myself? Where should I go?"  
  
"North, to serve one of the Khans as I did, maybe. Or perhaps you ought stay here and join the Shepherds. I seem to remember that is exactly what your mother wished you to become: a shepherdess."  
  
Robin laughs gently and enfolds Magnus's gnarled hand in both of her own.  
  
He is gone by the time the candle has burned down to a stub.

 

* * *

  
  
Robin sells the shop shortly after she finishes settling Magnus's accounts. Deciding to say goodbye to life in Ylisstol, she packs only the chess set, her mother's sword, a couple of thunder tomes, and a few of Magnus's better strategy texts. She dons one of the Plegian mage robes that never managed to sell because it is all that is readily available to her.  
  
The road that stretches onward before her is long and rough and hers to walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter 6 of the game, Chrom tells Robin that his father died fifteen years previously, when Emmeryn was just under ten. The idea of a nine-year-old ruling over a nation struck me as a bit far-fetched (although I'm certain there are a number of historical examples), so I delayed her formal coronation until her early teens.
> 
> Incidentally, that would make Emmeryn about twenty-four during the events of Chapter 6 of the game, and Chrom no older than twenty-three. For the purposes of this story, I'm assuming that Robin is roughly the same age as Emmeryn, and two years older than Chrom.


	4. The Kindling of a Heart

Robin's eyes crack open. The sun blinds her briefly, but then her eyes adjust and the bleary shapes looming over her resolve into people, a smiling man with cobalt hair and a young woman with messy blonde pigtails.  
  
"The ground doesn't exactly make the most comfortable bed, you know," the man says, light and friendly. He reaches down a hand and pulls her to her feet, and for a moment she's transfixed by the deep, startling blue of his eyes.  
  
Then, quite suddenly, she realizes that the weight of her pack is absent from her back. Her hand flies to her hip, but instead of finding the familiar sheath of her mother's sword, her fingers close around the skirt of her robe.  
  
"What’s wrong?" the man asks, concern evident in his voice.  
  
"They took everything," Robin answers. "They knocked me cold and stole all but the clothes on my back."  
  
The man's eyebrows draw down into a furious scowl. "Brigands," he states tightly, his jaw clenching. "I'm afraid that it's become rather common for the people of Ylisse to cross paths with such lawless fiends of late."  
  
Recognition dawns in Robin's still-throbbing head. "Wait, you're the prince, aren't you? Chrom?"  
  
"Yes," the man confirms, his frown melting into another smile. "Might I ask how you're familiar with me?"  
  
She hesitates a moment before answering. "I spent part of my childhood in the capital. Who could forget that blue-haired boy who couldn't stop swinging a sword while his sister addressed the crowd at her exaltation celebration?"  
  
At that, the blonde at Chrom's side erupts in a fit of giggles and exclaims, "I remember that!"  
  
Chrom lets out an indignant huff. "It was my first time amidst such a large crowd, Lissa," he explains defensively. "To calm my nerves, Emm told me she needed a brave knight to protect her, and let me have Falchion."

 

* * *

  
  
The Khan levels his one-eyed gaze at Robin. "Magnus, eh?" he says, voice booming across the hall. "You don't look like that old coot's sprog, but the way your lot handed our arses to us at Longfort, it's clear you've got his brains."  
  
Robin smiles, but it’s small and rueful, belied by the almost imperceptible slumping of her shoulders. "I was not related to Magnus by blood, but rather an orphan he adopted and trained," she explains.  
  
Basilio guffaws thunderously. "Figures! The codger never had time for women."  
  
Chrom takes a decisive step forward. "Will Ferox lend Ylisse its aid, Khan Basilio?" he asks plainly.  
  
"So you can rescue this Maribelle woman from the Plegians?" The Khan shakes his head. "Sorry, lad, but all my best fighters are already committed to serving as my champions in the coming tournament."  
  
"And if I and my Shepherds were to fight alongside them?" Chrom offers, not missing a beat.

 

* * *

  
  
Robin finds Chrom standing near the willow in the castle garden. A gentle breeze rustles through the tree's branches, creating a whispering chorus to accompany the shrill, one-note symphony of distant crickets.  
  
The peace is unsettling in the wake of the violence the night has seen.  
  
Chrom turns toward Robin. His eyes, when they meet hers, are hollow; his face is drawn and slick with tears. The bandage wrapped just under the Brand of the Exalt on his upper right arm is dark with drying blood.  
  
"Are you alright?" Robin asks.  
  
"I am alive," Chrom answers gruffly.  
  
Robin blinks to clear her welling tears. "I was a fool to think it too early in the game to fear such an attack."  
  
"None of us could have known what was going to transpire tonight," Chrom tells her.  
  
“But I'm your chief tactician! It was my duty to foresee our enemies' moves! I failed, and your sister paid the price."  
  
Chrom abruptly pulls Robin against his chest with his uninjured arm. She buries her face in the navy blue fabric of his tunic, allowing his sure, solid presence to support her exhausted frame and shattered heart.  
  
"You heard my would-be assassin in the bushes," Chrom says. "I owe my life to your quick reflexes."

 

* * *

  
  
Inside the tent, the stink of battle hangs thick, sweat and dirt and steel, surrounding Robin like an oppressive miasma. "If we can steal through this mountain pass," she says, pressing a finger to the map spread on the table before her, "we stand a good chance of catching the garrison unawares, which would compensate for our lesser numbers."  
  
"Robin," Chrom says unexpectedly, his voice deep and battle-roughened, yet oddly sheepish.  
  
"What is it?" Robin asks evenly.  
  
"I'm...I've...” he stammers, a high flush spreading across his mud-flecked cheeks. "I've been thinking a lot lately."  
  
"About what?" Robin presses gently. "Chrom, I've seen you in your birthday suit, and you I. No secrets, remember?"  
  
Chrom exhales deeply. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "I've been thinking about you, mostly," he confesses. "About what an asset you are to the Shepherds. About how our cause would be lost without you. How _I_ would be lost. In all the months we've been fighting together, Robin, you've become my best friend. You've become... _more_."  
  
Robin's stomach pitches. Her throat is dry, suddenly, all sand and grit. " _Chrom_ ," she chokes out.  
  
"No," Chrom says, shaking his head firmly. "I cannot bear to keep what I feel locked inside any longer. I love you. I would have us stand beside each other, not only as friends and allies, but as husband and wife."  
  
Turning away, Robin braces her hands against the table, feeling as if the the world is spinning off its axis. "We can't. I'm sorry, Chrom, but we're at war. We can't afford to indulge our hearts. The stakes are too high."  
  
Chrom gently takes hold of her shoulders and whirls her around to face him. The smell of mud and sweat is as strong on him as it is on her, but under it there's something else, something distinctly masculine and his entirely.  
  
"You're filthy," Robin says, the words spilling out unbidden.  
  
"As are you," Chrom replies, without the slightest hint of reproach. "I love you all the same."  
  
"Why couldn't you have waited until a more opportune time to... _to propose to me?_ Perhaps after we both bathed?"  
  
"We've been through good and ill together," Chrom says. "You've seen me at my worst, and I've seen you at yours. This war has been raging for a year now, and if that's taught me anything, it's that one must seize the moment."  
  
Robin feels her heart flutter. Reaching a hand up to touch Chrom's jaw, she whispers, "Then let us seize it."

 

* * *

  
  
Robin lets out a strangled yelp as the violent cinching of her gown's bodice forces all the air from her lungs.  
  
Stepping back, Maribelle tuts and waves her hand, admiring her work. "You are about to marry a prince, darling. It is only proper that you be dressed like a true lady for such an august occasion."  
  
Sully scoffs from her position by the wall. "What a bunch of horse plop."  
  
"Oh, really?" Maribelle says haughtily, her fat ringlets bouncing as she whirls to face her fellow bridesmaid. "I suppose you would find it perfectly acceptable for the bride of an Ylissean prince to wear a burlap sack?"  
  
"If two people love each other, it shouldn't matter what the hell they get hitched in," Sully answers with a shrug. "Besides, they're just going to tear it all off each other in a few hours, anyway."  
  
"Well, I never," Maribelle sniffs. "Why must you, a noble lady, insist on deporting yourself like a lowborn wench?"  
  
Blue-faced, Robin lets out a muffled plea for help, but it is eclipsed by Sully's loud, expletive-laden retort to Maribelle. However, her distress does not go unnoticed by Sumia, who duly steps forward and loosens the bodice laces.  
  
"Thanks," Robin wheezes, her dark gaze meeting Sumia's in the full-length mirror in front of her.  
  
Sumia smiles and nods, but there's something different in her soft brown eyes, a pained, yearning sort of look. Stepping away quickly, she fetches the bridal veil, then carefully arranges it atop of Robin's head.  
  
Robin considers her refection for a moment, pulling out the voluminous, ivory-white skirt of her dress on either side. "I look like a meringue," she declares. "I wouldn't last five seconds if I wore this thing into battle."  
  
Sully chortles. "A woman after my own heart," she says, grinning broadly.  
  
"You look radiant," Sumia says quietly, more to herself than to Robin. "I'm sure Chrom is going to be very happy."

 

* * *

  
  
Armoured boots clank down the hallway toward the royal bedchamber. Robin's breath catches in her throat. Setting her quill back in the inkpot, she shifts in her chair so that she is facing the door, elation brimming in her chest.  
  
The gait is one that she would recognize anywhere; she has not heard it in over two months.  
  
Chrom enters the room and sits down on the bed, then turns a haggard gaze toward Robin, causing her heart to sink. In a ragged voice, he tells her, "We were nearly slaughtered. I lead our forces straight into an ambush."  
  
Robin pushes herself out of her chair, her lowered centre of gravity making it a slow, awkward process. Her swollen feet ache in her slippers with every step she takes to close the distance between herself and her husband.  
  
Taking Chrom's head in her hands, she tilts his eyes up to meet hers and says, "You need me out there."  
  
Chrom gently lays both of his hands on the swell of her belly where it juts out between the halves of her housecoat. "Right now I need you _safe_ ," he whispers, the quaver in his voice betraying the depth of his emotion.  
  
"I know," Robin says, swallowing against a dry throat. "But I can't sit out the whole war."  
  
Chrom lets his hands drop and sighs. "My parents rode off to war when I was eight and never returned," he says. "You lost your mother, and never knew your father. I want our child to grow up with both of us around."  
  
The bed dips further as Robin sits beside Chrom. Setting her right hand on top of his left where it rests on his lap, she meshes their fingers together, allowing her cheek to fall against the cold steel of the pauldron on his shoulder.  
  
"Why are there no texts on the Plegian religion in the castle library?" Robin inquires quietly. "I found cross references to specific titles, but despite a fortnight's searching, I found none of them in our collection."  
  
"I believe my father purged them during his campaign against Plegia," Chrom answers.  
  
“ _Why?"_ Robin says, more sharply than intended. "Ignorance never availed anyone."  
  
Chrom casts a narrowed gaze down at her. "I never claimed my father was a wise or just man."  
  
"But you are," Robin says, angling her head up to meet his eyes and squeezing his hand reassuringly. "It's just been weighing on my mind of late, how little we understand Gangrel and his people's motivations."

 

* * *

  
  
Pain assails Robin in vicious red waves. Beats her down. Makes her scream. Perched at her bedside, Chrom is helpless to do anything but watch and wait, his face an anguished rictus, yet his hold on her hand unfaltering.  
  
No force will move him from his place but her word.  
  
For all the midwife's grumbling, however, she can't bear to send him off to bide his time as men are supposed to do. The look in his eyes says he needs to be here. Needs to fill some role besides prince and general for a change.  
  
Many hours later, as early morning sunlight spills across the trees blossoming outside the bedchamber window, Chrom stares raptly at the infant sleeping in his arms, with her tiny, perfect nose and shock of blue hair.  
  
"Emmeryn?" Robin suggests tiredly, reaching over to stroke the baby's cheek.  
  
Chrom's mouth briefly compresses into a taut line. "No," he says. "Didn't you say you favoured Morgan?"  
  
"For a boy, yes," Robin answers with a lazy smile.  
  
Chrom laughs. Then his gaze drifts to the world outside the window. After a minute, he turns to look at her and asks, "What about Lucina? It means 'light.' A fitting name for a ray of hope given to us in such a dark hour."

 

* * *

  
  
Gangrel charges toward Robin in a cackling blur. Lifting his Levin Sword skyward, he swings it with a strange, fluid grace, the high desert sun glinting off of its serpentine blade as it cuts an arc toward the tactician's neck.  
  
It isn't her life that flashes before her eyes, but rather a swift succession of remembered sounds, smells, and feelings: bear stew simmering on a crackling campfire, Chrom's hands sliding down her back, Lucina's gleeful little laugh.  
  
"Think again!" a voice behind her booms, and suddenly an unseen hand yanks her back by the hood of her robe.  
  
Robin struggles to regain her balance as Chrom rushes forward. Falchion meets Gangrel's sword with a loud _clang_.  
  
"Aw, how touching!" Gangrel says tauntingly. "The little prince bought his precious wifey a few more seconds to live!"  
  
" _No,"_ Chrom growls through clenched teeth, arm muscles flexing as he fights to keep the king's blade in check.  
  
Gangrel chuckles. "What? Scared of dying alone? Don't worry, princeling, you won't be a widower for long."  
  
Without warning, a yellow bolt streaks through the air, and Gangrel lets out an alarmed squawk. His body knocks a small cloud of dust into the air as he lands upon the sandy ground like a dropped sack of flour.  
  
"You were saying?" Robin quips, walking over to stand beside her husband.

 

* * *

 

  
"Papa!" Lucina cries, stretching out her hands toward Chrom as he ascends the front steps of the palace with Robin. She wriggles and squirms in an energetic effort to free herself from the arms of the nurse holding her.  
  
"Lucina!" Chrom says, taking the excited toddler in his arms and kissing her forehead. "My little treasure."  
  
It pains Robin to realize that, in the six months they've been away, their daughter has sprouted a full three inches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to BehindTheName.com, the name Lucina derives from the Latin _lucus_ , meaning "grove," rather than the Latin _lux_ , meaning "light." But let's just overlook that inconvenient little fact in the interest of giving Lucina's name symbolic significance.


	5. Memento

Doubt finds a way into his heart for the first time when the drawer slides open and torchlight spills across its contents.  
  
Lying atop a stack of yellowed documents is a pair of tiny white shoes. With a bemused snicker, he reaches down and picks them up by the very tips of their knotted laces, letting them dangle in midair before his eyes. Somehow, he has forgotten stowing this twee little memento away here, more than a quarter of a century ago.  
  
It hits him suddenly that the shoes are in pristine condition. _Unworn._ Not a token of his daughter's teetering first steps, then, but a reminder of how his apostate wife robbed him of the chance to ever feel his chest swell with paternal pride.  
  
Of how his father before him, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, all bore fatherhood with stoic faces and pragmatic hearts, striving generation by generation toward the realization of Grima's divine will.  
  
He drops the shoes and slams the drawer shut before he can ask whether the fell dragon demands too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one honestly surprised me. But it occurred to me that this kind of inner conflict might realistically catch up with even the most villainous of villains the longer he has to see an individual and not a simple means to an end — which might not bring an end to his machinations, but slow them down for a bit.


	6. In the Eye of the Beholder

White clouds sweep slowly over the verdant hill, buffeted by the gentle, unusually clement April breeze. In the distance, two pegasi are grazing, their wide white wings folded neatly against their flanks.  
  
Sitting between Cordelia and Robin on the grass, Sumia absently picks a small, white daisy. "I do miss riding her," she tells Cordelia, patting her belly with her other hand, "but Frederick agrees it isn't advisable in my condition."  
  
"Lon'qu won't admit it, but I think he's glad I've less call to spend time on the wing, now we've peace," Cordelia says. "Remember the single-minded ferocity with which he cut down archers during the war?"  
  
Absorbed in her book, Robin can't help feeling like a third wheel beside the two chatting pegasus knights, and yet she's aware that, in some small way, she's to thank for the fact that they're still on speaking terms. After all, she laid claim to a man both of them had wanted, but whom only one of them could have ever had.  
  
"Sumia!" Cordelia cries suddenly. "Are you doing flower fortunes again? You promised you wouldn't!"  
  
Robin jerks her head up just in time to see a single petal float free of Sumia's grasp.  
  
"Sorry," Sumia says sheepishly. "I just wanted to find out whether I'm going to have a boy or a girl."  
  
"You're only a month away from an actual answer!" Cordelia admonishes.  
  
"I know," Sumia says. "I've just been so apprehensive lately that I've fallen back into the habit. It's comforting."  
  
"Would you be so kind as to do a reading for me, Sumia?" Robin asks, setting her book down.  
  
"Of course!" Sumia says brightly. "I'm sure you’re eager to know whether Lucina has a brother or a sister on the way."

 

* * *

  
  
Validar sits ramrod straight across the table, smiling at his host and hostess from behind long, steepled fingers. "It was most gracious of you to welcome us on an official visit, sire," he says, the words heavy and unctuous.  
  
Chrom nods as he sets his teacup down on its saucer. "It was my sister's wish for our nations to know peace."  
  
The woman seated beside Validar lets out a warbling laugh. "Wasn't your father's wish, though, was it?" she sneers. "He waged a holy war against our people. Left countless children orphans, forced to fend for themselves in the cruel streets."  
  
"Aversa," the Plegian king chides. "No one can deny the hardship of your youth. But let us now look toward the future. Children do not always follow their fathers' leads. Some are destined for... _greater purposes_."  
  
At this, Validar's gaze pans over to Robin, and she returns the look with a diplomatic smile. An inexplicable chill slithers down her spine, but her gloved hand remains steady as she lifts her teacup and takes a slow, measured sip.  
  
Suddenly, the door of the reception hall crashes open, and a five-year-old boy comes bounding over to Robin's side. "Mother!" he cries, holding up a glass jar. "Look! I found a screaming moth outside!"  
  
A moment later, Lucina strolls into the room, head held high with precocious dignity. "Morgan!" she says sharply. "Father and Mother are seeing to important state business! You can't just barge in on them!"  
  
Morgan's brown eyes meet Robin's pleadingly as Lucina walks over and seizes him by the wrist.  
  
Leaning over the side of her chair, Robin ruffles her son's cobalt mop and whispers, "You can show me later, love."  
  
"Okay," the boy agrees, flashing a childish smile complete with a missing incisor.  
  
Lucina gives a quick, one-handed curtsey to the Plegian guests, then turns and drags her brother out of the room.  
  
When Robin resumes an upright position, the Plegian king's eyes are once again focused on her, only this time the shrewd, penetrating quality of his gaze has been replaced by something that she can't quite place.

 

* * *

  
  
The air is humid and heavy with the pollen of the vibrant profusion of flowers growing in the castle garden. Under the dappled shade offered by the willow, it is slightly cooler, but Robin's hair is still plastered to her forehead in damp strands, her husband's skin still slick with sweat where her cheek rests against his shoulder.  
  
A few yards away on the parched sward, Lucina, Morgan, and their cousin Owain are at play, scurrying around as Owain's father lumbers after them with both of his sinewy arms raised in mock-threat.  
  
"You better run, kiddos, or the Vaike is gonna get ya!" he hollers, eliciting a chorus of jubilant laughs.  
  
Chrom looks down at Robin through half-lidded eyes. "What're you thinking, my love?" he asks lazily.  
  
"Remember when you said you were considering consigning Lissa to the Sisterhood of Lady Naga?" she asks.  
  
"Mmm," Chrom hums noncommittally, turning his eyes toward his habitually shirtless brother-in-law. "A jest, I imagine."  
  
A minute passes, filled only with the drone of bumblebees and the high, delighted shrieks of children. At last, Chrom angles a serious gaze at his wife and says, "I'd like to begin training Lucina to fight with a sword."  
  
Robin exhales sharply. Her heart constricts within her chest. "Chrom, I —" she falters.  
  
Chrom gently takes hold of her hand, kneading its back through her thin, white linen glove with his thumb. "Our daughter is eight," he reminds her. "You told me once that you were six when your mother started training you."  
  
"Yes, but that's _different_ , Chrom," Robin insists. "We lived a hard life on the road. The threat of bandits was very real. Lucina is a _princess_. We've our hard-won peace and a castle full of guards to keep her safe."  
  
"Lucina is heir to House Ylisse," Chrom says, the note of pride in his voice not escaping Robin's notice. "Falchion is her birthright, and she deserves to know how to wield it, though I pray she never has cause."

 

* * *

  
  
Crumpled bits of silver paper litter the table, shining like fallen stars in the bright, buttery sunlight slanting through the high windows of the hall, where party guests presently stand gathered in a tight huddle around Morgan. With wide eyes and a small, shy grin, the young prince surveys his mountain of gifts, from Lucina's loudly-patterned sweater, to Owain's toy sword ("Dastard-Whacker"), to his friend Laurent's insect-mounting kit.  
  
A sudden hush falls over the room. Robin pulls a gold-wrapped package from behind her back and gives it to Morgan.  
  
"Mother?" the boy says, his dark eyes darting between Robin and the unexpected gift.  
  
"Open it," Robin encourages with a gentle smile.  
  
Tearing off the paper, Morgan discovers a chessboard, ebony and ivory inlay with finely-cast little silver hinges.  
  
"It's a replica of the chessboard my mother bought for me on my own eighth birthday," Robin explains.  
  
"Oh, Mother, thank you!" Morgan exclaims. "You'll teach me to play, won't you?"  
  
"Of course," Robin promises.  
  
That night, an unmarked package arrives at the palace by courier, sealed with bruise-purple wax and containing a dark tome worth more than half of the weapons in the royal armory put together.  
  
 _To my grandson_ , the unsigned card reads in knife-sharp script. _May he grow strong and worthy._  
  
"You don't suppose it could be from my father?" Chrom deadpans to Robin in the sanctuary of their bedchamber.  
  
"We'll have it burned in the morning," Robin declares, suppressing an inexplicable shudder.

 

* * *

  
  
Inigo whirls and twists about the castle courtyard with the grace of flowing water. Seated on the lip of a spouting fountain, his father Henry watches the impromptu show intently, an implacable grin plastered on his face.  
  
"Then Mother showed me this," Inigo tells his father. Shifting his weight onto a single foot, he tries to pivot his whole body on it, but instead loses his balance and topples to the ground, skinning his knee on the rough flagstones.

Henry rushes over to kneel at his son’s side. "It's okay, Inigo," he says soothingly, reaching out to poke the wound. "There isn't much blood. There could've been a _lot_ more. Like pints and pints of it everywhere."  
  
Inigo's face turns chalk-white. "You — you — you mean I could've died?" he asks in a trembling voice.  
  
"Maybe," Henry answers. "So just be more careful next time. And put a dressing on your ow-ow. Unless you want your leg to get all putrified and fall off. Which would be kind of cool, but then you couldn't dance, and I’d be sad.”  
  
Letting Henry help him to his feet, Inigo says, "Thanks, Father. I'll go see if Mother will bandage my knee for me."  
  
When Henry turns around, he finds Robin standing there, a bemused expression on her face. "Oh, hello!" he greets.  
  
"Hello, Henry," Robin returns. "May I ask you something?"  
  
"Sure!" Henry says cheerfully.  
  
"You grew up in Plegia and were brought up in the Grimleal faith, right?"  
  
"Well, _everyone_ in Plegia is raised Grimleal," Henry responds. "It's kinda the state religion."  
  
Silently bracing herself, Robin tugs the glove off of her right hand, holding the back of it up for the dark mage to see. "Do you recognize this mark? she asks, schooling her features into a mask of neutrality.  
  
Henry raises a single finger into the air. "That’s Lord Grima's mark," he says. "Why do bear Lord Grima's mark?"  
  
"I don't know," Robin admits. "I was hoping you might have an idea."  
  
"I saw it in a few books back when I studied magic, but I don't know anything about it, sorry."

 

* * *

  
  
Robin sits silently on the edge of the bed with her hands folded in her lap. Behind her she can hear the sounds of Chrom readying himself for sleep: the _click_ of his cape clasp unhooking, followed by the soft, susurrant rustle of him pulling the cape off of his shoulders and the familiar fall of his footsteps as he goes to hang it up.  
  
"How long have you been married to me?" she asks tonelessly, turning to face him as walks back toward the bed.  
  
Chrom stops in his tracks. His breath catches in his throat and his features soften with concern. "Robin?"  
  
"Tell me," she urges, but there's no force behind the words.  
  
"Eleven years," Chrom answers.  
  
"In all that time, during which I've fought beside you and lain with you and borne your children, why has it never occurred to you to seriously question the significance of the mark I bear on my right hand?"  
  
"Perhaps because I wish to be judged for myself, not for the Brand on my shoulder," Chrom replies softly.  
  
Robin's right hand quivers as she holds it up in the air. "Henry has informed me that this mark belongs to Grima."  
  
Chrom lets out a barely audible gasp. For a split-second, his eyes narrow, but then he shakes his head firmly and strides over to stand directly in front of Robin, his heated glare bearing down on her like a palpable weight.  
  
"Do you truly think my love could ever falter over something you've had _since you were born?"_ he grits out.  
  
"Chrom, I —" she stammers. "You bear Naga's mark — and I — it's not right..."  
  
Though she tries to flinch away, Chrom succeeds in capturing her right hand in a firm grip, bringing it up to his lips and pressing a kiss between the six unblinking eyes as he pins her with the intensity of his gaze.  
  
"I only care who you _are_ ," he tells her. "My wife. _My heart._ And if that's folly, Robin, I'll gladly be known as a fool."  
  
Robin lets out a sharp little gasp. Her heart leaps within her chest. "Chrom," she whispers.  
  
Suddenly, Chrom's hands alight on her shoulders, and she allows her body to be guided back onto the bed. He stretches above her like the firmament, claiming her mouth in a fierce, possessive kiss. Tangling her fingers in his hair, she arches up against him, her shaky moan lost in the passionate incursion of his tongue.  
  
They are both breathless when they break apart. Pushing the high collar of her gown out of the way, Chrom proceeds to bury his face in the crook of her neck, his lips grazing the tender skin of her pulse point.  
  
"Without you, I'm incomplete," he confesses, low and reverent. "I'm but half a man."  
  
Robin makes a breathless sound. Then she hooks her legs around Chrom's back, flipping them over so that she lands on top of him, her hands flat against his chest and her knees on either side of his hips.  
  
Grinding her pelvis downward impishly, she remarks, "Seems like you are definitely all man at the moment."  
  
"Ah, gods, _Robin_ ," Chrom hisses, his head snapping back on the mattress.  
  
With impatient fingers, she fumbles open his breeches, and in turn he rucks the skirt of her dress up around her waist. His strong hands usher her down, down, until finally they merge, finding their accustomed rhythm.

 

* * *

  
  
"But, Mother, what about my tactics lessons?" Morgan asks miserably. His nose is red from the chill winter air, and there are unshed tears wetting his eyes, distorting the Brand visible in the right iris, hazel against dark brown.  
  
Robin takes hold of the freely dangling ends of her son's scarf and wraps them properly around his neck. "Ferox needs our aid in fending off the Valmese invasion, so I'm afraid your lessons shall have to wait for another time, love."  
  
"I understand, Mother," Morgan says with a sniffle. "I'm gonna miss you, though."  
  
"And I'll miss you twice as much, sweetheart," Robin returns gently, pulling the boy into a tight embrace.  
  
When mother and son part, Chrom smiles and opens his arms, and Morgan duly submits to another hug. "Every day you make me proud to be your father," he states when his son pulls away from him half a minute later.  
  
"You'll promise to watch over your brother?" Robin asks, turning to Lucina.  
  
"Of course, Mother," Lucina answers solemnly.  
  
"I trust that the halidom shall be in good hands while we're away," Chrom says, addressing his daughter.  
  
"I won't let you down, Father," Lucina swears.  
  
Chrom walks over to Lucina and enfolds her in the circle of his arms. She lingers there for over a minute, face pressed against his solar plexus, fingers bunching in the heavy white folds of his cape.  
  
After Chrom and Lucina pull apart, Robin steps forward, taking her daughter into a second hug.  
  
"Know that we love you both very dearly," Robin tells her children a minute later. Then, with her husband at her side, she turns and descends the front steps of the castle, joining the convoy waiting at the end of the drive.


	7. Thicker Than Water

"Eight-hundred warships?" Frederick states, his tone and posture circumspect. "Such generosity is quite unexpected. If I am not mistaken, milord, you offer us the greater portion of your national fleet."  
  
Validar's mouth twists into grin. His clawed fingers flex where they rest on the gilded arms of his high-backed throne. Eyes locking on Robin, he says, "Anything for my daughter and heir."  
  
Robin gasps, a tight, stonelike weight settling in her stomach. "It was you," she says breathlessly, feeling pinioned by the head-on, inscrutable gaze of the king and the shocked, questioning looks of Chrom and Frederick on either side. "You sent that tome. But, why? Why would you conceal our kinship, when you've evidently known of it for some time?"  
  
"Peace was fragile between our two nations following the war," Validar answers smoothly. "A father's wish to better know his long-lost child seemed a trifle balanced against the needs of the Plegian people."  
  
"How do you know Robin is your daughter?" Chrom demands. "What proof have you?"  
  
"My daughter bears the mark of her lineage as you bear the mark of yours." The king lets out a darkly amused laugh. "I am certain that, as my son-in-law and the father of my grandchildren, you have encountered it before."  
  
Chrom huffs out a sharp breath through clenched teeth. "I have," he grits out. "But that is not your concern."  
  
"One should not take such a forward tone with Ylissean royalty," Frederick advises.  
  
"Ah, but the prince is family, is he not?" Validar says. "Bound to this realm through his union with its princess."

 

* * *

  
  
A single star shines in the narrow sliver of night revealed by the wind-caught tent-flap. Chrom sits beside Robin on the edge of their cot, palming slow, soothing circles in the center of her back as he waits for her to break the silence.  
  
"My mother insisted that I start wearing gloves at all times the instant we crossed Regna Ferox's border," she says finally. "I've been so careful. So how could Validar have known of my mark? Unless he has spies planted everywhere?"  
  
"I don't know," Chrom replies softly. His naked uncertainty quells her troubled heart more than a thousand empty reassurances ever could; in a world of chaos, he is a fixed point, a pillar of trust that supports her unconditionally.  
  
"There've been times I've removed them in public view, though," Robin admits, her voice heavy with guilt.  
  
"What's done is done," Chrom says, not unkindly. "Castigating yourself now serves little purpose. Besides, as King Validar pointed out, our marriage further cements peaceful relations between Ylisse and Plegia."  
  
"You don't know what it's like. Always, the idea of my father has been there, like a shadow in the back of my mind. I asked my mother what he was like once — _once_ — and she gave me a look that could've curdled milk."  
  
" _Robin_ ," Chrom whispers, letting his hand trail up her slumped spine to curl tenderly around the nape of her neck.  
  
"Did you believe his cockamamie tale?" Robin asks, though the question is mostly rhetorical. "That my true mother died in childbirth, and my nurse, distraught at the loss of her own baby, stole away with me?"  
  
"I have no way of disproving such a claim," Chrom avers. "Nor do I have any means of verifying it."  
  
"I can't explain it, Chrom," Robin states. "All I've got is this _feeling_. This unaccountable, bone-deep intuition — like your gut hunches, your instinctive sense of what's right — that Validar is not a man to be trusted."

 

* * *

  
  
Robin slips out of the warm berth of Chrom's arms into the chill and wide-open night. Her feet carry her beyond the border of their camp and into the engulfing darkness of the outlying forest.  
  
For several minutes, there is only the stirring of overhanging branches and the wild, restless course of her thoughts. Then she hears the _pop_ of teleportation magic behind her and realizes that she is no longer alone.  
  
"I knew that you would heed my call," Validar pronounces with quiet relish.  
  
"What?" Robin gasps, whirling around to face the king.  
  
"Search deep within yourself, my daughter," he says, every hissing syllable sharp as the point of a dagger at her throat. "It is written in your blood. Your _sacred_ blood. You are destined to fulfill a glorious purpose."  
  
"What do you want from me?" Robin demands angrily, taking a step backwards to distance herself from him.  
  
"Only for you to claim your birthright," he replies, a smug smile playing at the corners of his thin-lipped mouth. "Leave these foolish servants of Naga and take your rightful place beside your father and king."  
  
"Abandon my family?" Robin chokes out. "You are _mad_. Utterly mad."  
  
All of a sudden, an alien presence invades her mind, clamping around her will like a vice. With an agonized shriek, she falls to her knees on the spongy moss carpeting the forest floor, clutching her head in her trembling hands.  
  
"I had hoped filial loyalty would lead you to heed me willingly," Validar tells her. "But if I must compel you, daughter, so be it."  
  
Robin screams again as Validar's hold on her mind tightens. "No! Get out of my head. _Get out!_ "  
  
"Get away from my wife, you fiend," Chrom suddenly growls from beside her. Even through the haze of her pain, she can hear the visceral fury in his voice, see the pale glint of moonlight on Falchion's blade.  
  
Validar sniggers and tilts his chin in the air. "Very well, princeling. But we shall meet again. It is only a matter of time."  
  
With that, the king vanishes, and Chrom kneels beside Robin. "Are you hurt?" he asks, pulling her into his arms.

 

* * *

  
  
Robin plunges into the freezing sea hard. The force of it rips her hand out of Chrom's, leaving her flailing around in the half-dark abyss frantically, blindly, her black mage robe billowing about her like a wraith's shroud. A hellish orange-red glow filters down through the rippling surface of the water from the frigate burning above.  
  
Kicking her way to the surface, Robin heaves in shaky, panicked breaths. "Chrom!" she screams into the night.  
  
She waits. Her thudding heart drowns out the din of the Valmese fleet igniting. Seconds pass like ages of the world.  
  
At last, Chrom's head breaks the surface, and Robin exclaims, "Over here!"  
  
Paddling over to her, Chrom lets out a relieved laugh, a tiny smile gracing his lips. "Was that what they call a pyrrhic victory?" he quips.

 

* * *

  
  
All around Robin battle rages in a vivid kaleidoscope of colour: the silver flash of sword and lance, the rusty brown of blood spilled upon grass, the blinding-bright blue and yellow and red of unleashed spells. She stands in the very midst of the fighting, the axis around which it revolves, the eye of a deadly storm of her own design.  
  
Suddenly, the scene dissolves, and Robin finds herself looking sideways at her own hands. Beneath her cheek she can feel the time-yellowed map of Valm she spread out on the table sometime before nodding off.  
  
"Come to bed, my love," Chrom whispers into her ear softly. "You need a proper night's rest."  
  
She sits upright in her chair. Chrom steps back, but his hands remain on her shoulders, a gentle, anchoring weight. He begins kneading the stiffness out of her neck of his own volition. She surrenders herself to the balm of his touch, her eyelids fluttering shut as the tension bleeds out of her muscles by slow, rapturous degrees.  
  
At last, Chrom plants a kiss on the crown of her head to inform her that he's done, and Robin opens her eyes again. Resolve hardens within her like a stone forming in the pit of her stomach.  
  
"I can't," she says. "Our success in the next battle hinges upon my ability to come up with an effective strategy."  
  
" _Robin_ ," Chrom chides, his tone loving but firm. "I daresay you can spare some shut-eye without risking our chances of victory."  
  
Robin reaches up to squeeze her husband's hand where it rests against her shoulder. "I'll be fine, Chrom. Really."  
  
"Sometimes I think you are the most formidable foe I'll ever face. Well, if you're not to be moved by simple concern for your wellbeing, perhaps I should also tell you how I've missed having my wife beside me at night."  
  
The words make Robin's heart skip. She exhales sharply and tightens her grip on Chrom's hand.  
  
"I miss knowing that, wherever my dreams take me, you'll be at my side like a second Falchion," Chrom continues. "I miss having you be the last thing I see before falling asleep and the first thing I see upon waking."  
  
With a soft sigh, Robin relents, allowing Chrom to guide her back to their shared cot.  
  
Once he's curled up comfortably behind her, Chrom lets his hand trail along Robin’s flank, then round the curve of her hip to slip down the front of her tan travel breeches and between the juncture of her thighs.  
  
Robin's breath hitches. She arches back into her husband, feeling the sweet tension mount, low in her abdomen.  
  
"Let go, Robin," Chrom murmurs, and it's not a command, but a plea.  
  
Afterward, Robin turns toward him with a punchy smile and asks, "Want me to... _you know?_ "  
  
"Perhaps another time," he answers warmly. "In the meantime, my love, you should try to get some rest."  
  
Boneless and content, she drifts off to sleep with three eggshell-fragile, whispered words: “I love you."

 

* * *

  
  
"Basilio — that dumb, reckless, _brave_ oaf — decided to make a last stand against Walhart," Flavia says. "He went in knowing he was outmatched, I think, but his act bought enough time for the few of us still standing to escape."  
  
Before Robin and Chrom can offer their condolences, Flavia gives a brief, to-the-point nod and exits their tent.  
  
"It's the Feroxi way," Robin explains. "They don't dwell in grief because they consider doing so a form of weakness."  
  
Chrom sighs heavily, and in the fall of his shoulders, Robin can see the weight of the world pressing down. "I'd been trying to avoid casualties in this campaign," he tells her, in a raw, vulnerable tone seldom heard by anyone but herself.  
  
"I know," Robin replies evenly. "But there's no such thing as a bloodless war, Chrom."  
  
A fierce, angry look enters Chrom's eyes, and he lets out a strangled gasp, as if she's just dealt him a physical blow. "You think I don't know that?" he snarls. "That I don't see it every day in the death we’re bringing to this continent? In all the soldiers we're killing and the children we're orphaning and the crops we're ravaging in the name of _peace?_ "  
  
"You've always seen the world in absolutes,” Robin counters. “And I've always loved you for having such conviction. But everything isn't black and white, Chrom. Sometimes sacrifices must be made for the greater good."  
  
Chrom closes his eyes, drawing a deep, calming breath. When he opens them again a moment later, he says, "I'd gladly lay down my own life — for you and our children and all of our people — but I cannot ask the same of others."

 

* * *

  
  
Blinding pain consumes Robin as Validar's will floods her mind like a dark deluge. She clutches her head and screams, struggling with every fibre of her being to resist as the king attempts to wrest away control over her body, but the battle only lasts a few seconds, and he emerges its inevitable victor.  
  
The world narrows to a tunnel like she's suddenly looking through the wrong end of a spyglass. Dimly, she is aware of her feet moving across the purple carpet, carrying her toward the kneeling form of her husband.  
  
Her traitorous fingers reach out and prise the burnished-gold Fire Emblem off of his arm.  
  
"Robin!" she hears Chrom cry out. His eyes are wide and stricken. "What are you doing? Answer me!"  
  
Validar takes the Emblem from Robin with a triumphant grin. "Well done, my daughter," he says, then disappears.

 

* * *

  
  
"The Table is set for a feast," Validar proclaims. "Today shall see Grima roused from his thousand-year slumber. I must thank you, prince, for delivering the mortal vessel needed for the Awakening rite directly into my hands."  
  
Like the last piece of a puzzle falling into place, a horrific understanding dawns within Robin, making her stomach roil. Long-forgotten words echo in her head. Finally, after thirty years, she knows what her mother meant to say that day: _It's not a matter of the threat that the world poses to you, but rather the threat you pose to the world._  
  
"No! I'll never submit!" she screams, feeling the sour sting of bile at the back of her throat. "I'd rather die!"  
  
Validar laughs softly. "Clever girl," he says. "Your mind works quickly. But then it should also allow you to see that you and the pathetic followers of Naga you have brought to this hallowed place are powerless to turn the tide of fate."  
  
"I won't let you hurt Robin," Chrom vows in a low, dangerous growl as the full import of Validar's words hits him.  
  
"Hurt her?" Validar laughs again. "She is destined to become a _god_ , you fool!"  
  
Robin shakes her head. "I've no wish to be an agent of the deaths of everyone I hold dear."  
  
"Pah!" Validar scoffs. "Your bonds with these feeble creatures mean nothing. They are as shackles holding you back. Free yourself and rise to fulfill the sacred purpose for which you were born!"  
  
Chrom casts Robin a sidelong glance. Robin answers the look with an almost imperceptible nod. She readies her tome while Chrom unsheathes Falchion, and, together, husband and wife charge forward to meet their waiting foe.

 

* * *

  
  
Validar collapses face-first onto the stone floor in a swirling cloud of pink and purple energy. Chrom turns toward Robin, and in the small, spontaneous smile that he flashes her, she reads a hundred things. It's the look of a loving older brother and a proud father and a devoted husband waking up to the sun-kissed face of his wife.  
  
An instant later, the downed king unleashes an unexpected reprisal attack, and Chrom's beautiful smile shatters into shock as Robin frantically presses her hand against his shoulder and pushes him out of harm's way.  
  
Taking the full force of the blast, Robin falls sideways onto the ground, head aching and vision blurred. She sees her husband's feet sprinting over, hears his soft, panting breaths as his concerned face comes into view above her.  
  
"Are you alright?" he asks, gathering her in his strong arms and pulling her up into a sitting position.  
  
Suddenly, Chrom's words become muffled and indistinct, as if she's hearing him from underwater. She feels something monstrous rear up from the pit of her consciousness, brutal, black, and much stronger than Validar.  
  
Chrom lifts Robin onto her feet. She tries to scream — tries to warn him — but finds herself rendered mute. Her hands refuse to cooperate when she tries to push him away from the threat she can sense building within her.  
  
Then she feels the unmistakeable tickle of lightning magic arcing between her fingers. Chrom is so close to her, and suddenly he spasms violently, his eyes going round with pain and shock.


	8. Faith

Doubt enters his heart for the first time the instant he feels a searing lance of pain rip through his middle.  
  
He stumbles back from his wife, clutching his hand to the wound as he sucks in desperate, choking gasps. Looking down, he sees a yellow-white bolt of her magic sticking out of him, hears its soft, electric hum.  
  
Then he jerks his gaze back up and sees her staring at her still-sparking hand with horror-wide eyes. The same hand that, not a minute ago, pushed him out of harm's way; that he held fast as their children entered the world. Thus, the doubt flees his fading heart like a shadow dissipating, and he knows in the very marrow of his being that he cannot allow her to live with the guilt of something fell sorcery has compelled her to commit against her will.  
  
He needs her to be strong: for their people, for Lucina and Morgan, _for herself_.  
  
Already, his vision is darkening around the edges, but her face remains clear as he meets her eyes and grits out: "This is not your — your fault. Promise me...you’ll escape from this place. Please, _go_."  
  
And as his life slips away, he thinks there is a single golden thread, binding his heart to hers across the span of eternity.


	9. Perdition

Robin watches helplessly as death takes her husband. He tells her to save herself with pleading eyes, then his gaze abruptly breaks, and he slumps forward on the floor with a final, rattling breath.  
  
 _No, no, no_ , she mouthes repeatedly, her lips flapping open and shut soundlessly like a suffocating fish.  
  
The fell thing in Robin's mind starts laughing, cruel and triumphant, and she screams and falls to her knees. She collapses over Chrom's body, fisting her quivering hands in the heavy fabric of his cape and pulling it against her face to smother a second, sobbing howl.

"I'm sorry," she chokes out brokenly. "Oh, gods, Chrom, I'm sorry."  
  
 _The son of Naga has fallen_ , Grima tells her, his voice resounding in her head as if inside of a wide hall. _Why do you resist? Open your heart to me, that you may become a god, and I may rise anew._  
  
Clutching the cape more tightly in her hands, Robin shakes her head fiercely and rasps, "No!"  
  
 _Do it now and I will show your remaining comrades a merciful end_ , Grima says menacingly. _Continue to resist and, one by one, they will die by your hand, knowing it was you who wrought their undoing._  
  
"No, please, just —" Robin falters.  
  
 _Make your decision! Will you join with me, or watch your friends be slaughtered before your eyes?_  
  
Robin's chest feels like an empty cavity, with only a dry, shriveled husk where a heart used to beat. Chrom was light and hope and good, and without him in the world, there can be nothing but despair and the long, cruel march of death.

If the killing blow must fall, better that it be swift and clean.  
  
Letting Chrom's cape flutter free of her grasp, Robin rises on shaky, uncertain legs. She lets the last shred of her willpower fall away, and Grima rushes in to fill the hollowed-out void of her heart, infusing her with dark energy.  
  
Her body dissolves, breaks apart like smoke and shoots up, up, up into the bruise-dark sky in a blinding purple flash. Then she — _they_ — pull together into something vast and abominable, and suddenly the world seems tiny and flat as it stretches beneath them, an artist's canvas daubed with the minute, antlike specks of the assembled Grimleal.  
  
She tries to scream, but her mouth is gone, and instead an earth-shaking roar issues from the fell dragon's maw.

 

* * *

  
  
Time ceases to exist for Robin in the all-encompassing blackness in which Grima imprisons her consciousness. Days, months, and years fuse together to form a single boundless span of oblivion.  
  
Though she is blind, mute, and powerless, she is not always deaf. Sometimes, when Grima is struck by a particularly sadistic impulse, he will treat her to sounds from the outside world: the beat of his wings through ash-choked skies, the crash of ramparts falling, the panicked final prayers of desperate, terrified souls. By the supplicants' accents and the names of the gods they invoke, she traces the path of ruin, through Valm and then onto the Ylissean continent.  
  
The voices that she hears progressively become fewer and farther between.

 

* * *

  
  
In the cocooning darkness, there is nothing for Robin to do but let her thoughts turn over and over, an endless cycle of pain and regret at the memory of things that were once and should still be.  
  
The recollections start out so vivid as to border on reality: she can literally taste Magnus's freshly-made strawberry jam bursting across her phantom taste buds, can literally feel Chrom's stroking hands sending shivers racing along the ghosts of her nerves and Morgan's soft, thick hair carding between her spectral fingers. But, slowly, a pervading numbness wipes away these lingering sensations, and all the colours she remembers knowing fade to a dull, dead gray.  
  
She begins to wonder whether she ever fought and loved and laughed, or if there has only ever been this vast and empty shadow-world, and the life she knew was naught but a brief, fevered dream.  
  
 _At last you see the futility of your feeble human bonds_ , Grima tells her darkly.

 

* * *

  
  
The royal palace shudders beneath Grima's rearing bulk as if it is but a child's toy. Like a wreath of flame, the surrounding buildings of Ylisstol burn, forcing terrified citizens out of their homes and into streets swarming with Risen.  
  
Robin's captive soul is forced to watch the horror unfold from behind Grima’s six glowing eyes.  
  
 _The tastiest morsels are best saved for last_ , the dragon tells her, his voice heavy and gloating as it fills her mind.  
  
The words chill Robin to the core of her being. _No! You may have the world. Just...spare my children. Please!_  
  
Grima laughs ruthlessly. _And allow Naga's bloodline to endure? I think not._  
  
With that, the dragon tilts his head and sweeps it downward, ripping open the side of the castle with one of his immensely long horns as easily as a knife slicing through butter on a summer's day. Rubble scatters every which way with a deafening crash, and when the dust clears, it reveals a lone figure standing in the ruined throne room.  
  
The figure whirls around, strong, determined gaze widening in fear at the sight of the monstrous foe looming above. By the red glow of Grima's eyes, Robin has a brief, heart-rending glimpse of her daughter — no longer a gangling girl on the verge of adolescence, as she saw her last, but a young woman — wielding her father's sword.  
  
Protective instinct surges within Robin. She pushes against Grima's willpower with every last scrap of strength in her psyche, but he meets her full-force, crushing and crushing until he snuffs out all that remains of her.


	10. Escape

Lucina brandishes Falchion against the glowing red orb that suddenly dominates the sky like a dying sun. The sword's grip slips slightly in her shaking, sweat-slicked hands, but mustering her courage, she stands her ground.  
  
"Your mother and father are dead, tiny one," Grima tells her savagely.  
  
Lucina feels her heart twist. Here, then, is the answer to a question that has gone unresolved for nearly a decade. She'd mourned her father with the absolute finality of seeing his coffin lowered into the rain-sodden ground, but since they had never chanced upon her mother's body, there'd always been a small, lingering hope.  
  
With a sobbing gasp, Lucina thrusts Falchion out further in front of her, watching as Grima's great skeletal head pulls up into the blackened sky with a menacing laugh that shakes the foundations of the shattered castle.  
  
And as the dragon's gaping maw plunges toward her, she takes comfort in the knowledge that she will meet her end with her father's strength clutched in her hands and her mother's stubborn, unflagging spirit alive in her heart.  
  
She feels her body being ripped apart, and then there's nothing but a dark, constricting void.

 

* * *

   
  
When Lucina materializes again, it's not the smiling faces of her parents that greet her, but the scarred visage of Brady, bright-hued as his carrot-orange hair as he holds up his Rescue staff to fend off her still-outthrust sword.  
  
"Watch it, will ya?" he squawks indignantly. "That how ya repay a guy for savin' your sorry hide?"  
  
"W—what?" Lucina stammers in confusion, hastily sheathing Falchion as an afterthought.  
  
Morgan rushes forward from the tiny clutch of survivors and throws his arms around her. "I thought you were a goner."  
  
"Morgan," Lucina says, pushing her brother away and giving him a grim look. "It's over. He's won."

"Don't let the shadow of despair darken your fair face just yet, princess," Inigo says with his father's trademark grin. It's a smile that's seldom broken even through the long years of fighting and loss its wearer has seen.  
  
"Naga spoke to me," Nah explains. “She's opened a gate that'll lead us back to a time before Grima awoke. At least, it will if we don't just hang around here, chewing the fat until he squashes us all to a bloody pulp."  
  
"Indeed," Gerome concurs in a husky growl. "We are wasting valuable time."  
  
As if on cue, a violent tremor rocks the castle, causing dust and rubble to rain down from the ceiling. Yarne lets out a terrified shriek and bolts away toward a rectangle of pale blue light at the end of the long stone corridor.  
  
"Well, if he's the only one who makes it back, we're doomed," Severa says tartly, chasing after the taguel.  
  
Another tremor sends a second wave of debris clattering to the floor. Nah gives her companions a brief, contrite look, then turns and scurries off down the hall, her red cape and auburn plaits trailing behind her.  
  
Suddenly, Morgan clutches his head and screams, slumping forward into Lucina's arms limply.  
  
"No, no, not Mother," he grits out, the raw anguish in his characteristically upbeat voice deeply unsettling his sister. “Out there. _Mother_. Now she's...here. I can't go. I have to stay. She'll come back."  
  
"Mother is _dead_ , Morgan," Lucina says, more harshly than intended. "She's not coming back."  
  
With a strangled cry and a hard, wracking spasm, Morgan falls unconscious.  
  
Laurent hurries over and brushes Morgan's shaggy blue fringe off of his forehead. "I do not detect any obvious signs of cranial trauma," he declares in an even, analytical tone, "but it can be logically inferred that he has sustained a blow to the head from falling debris, and is currently in a state in shock."  
  
"You need to get him to safety," Lucina tells the mage firmly. " _Go_."  
  
The fleeting look that passes between the two is weighted with unspoken hopes. Then, with Owain's help, Laurent takes Morgan out of Lucina's arms and begins hauling the inert prince in the direction of the gate.  
  
"The Justice Cabal never abandons one of its own!" Owain vehemently proclaims.  
  
"Yeah!" Cynthia chirps, close on the retreating group's heels.  
  
Previously unnoticed, Kjelle follows after the pegasus knight, her armour clanking loudly with her every stomping step.  
  
Brady seizes Noire's hand. For a moment, the blonde archer just gapes at him with her bright green eyes, a look of confusion spread across the delicate features of her pale, finely-boned face.  
  
"Let's make like pants and split, eh?" the priest says, dragging Noire after him toward the gate.  
  
After Inigo departs with a silent nod, there is only Lucina, Gerome, and the crouched, alert form of his black wyvern.  
  
"You cannot simply blunder into the past," Gerome says gruffly. "Your Brand will identify you."  
  
"What do you suggest, then?" Lucina asks.  
  
Gerome does not deign to answer verbally. Instead, he walks over to her, handing her a mask with slatted eyeholes. Then he turns and leads his wyvern down the corridor and through the shimmering gate.  
  
Donning the mask, Lucina is struck by a sudden mental picture of herself, blue-haired and boyish in a golden diadem. It prompts her to reach back and tuck her long hair underneath the back of her cape.  
  
When she hurtles through the rippling barrier dividing present from past at a full sprint a moment later, she bears not only the Hero-King's sword and grave responsibility, but also his likeness and name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grima's temporary possession of Morgan kills two birds with one stone: it explains how Grima managed to follow the children back in time unnoticed, and not only why Morgan suffered amnesia, but also why said amnesia affected his memories of his exalt father, but not those of his Fellblood mother.
> 
> At least it does when Chrom is Morgan's father.


	11. An Unbroken Thread

Slowly, her mind uncouples itself from the darkness, drifting up toward the warm, red glow as if drawn by a string. There's a moment of shock, like breaking through the surface of water into open air, and then at last she recognizes the feel of sunlight filtering through her closed eyelids and the soft tickle of swaying grass against her cheeks.  
  
Her eyes crack open. The newborn world is a blinding wash of colour. She cannot remember her name, nor how she came to be lying here, and yet she has the strange, inexplicable intuition that this is where she is meant to be.  
  
Standing over her, she sees a blue-haired man and a younger, blonde woman.  
  
"There are better places to take a nap than on the ground, you know," the man says, smiling down at her.  
  
She has the sudden feeling that it's a familiar smile, a precious smile, a healing smile. A smile worth crossing mountains and fire and yawning gulfs of time to be gifted with just once.  
  
The man asks her to give him her hand so that he may help her up, and without thinking, she complies.  
  
In the warmth of his skin and the sureness of his grip, there is a sense of coming home after a long, wayward journey. Of seizing the trailing end of a thread that never broke, but merely slipped out of her grasp for a cosmic instant.


End file.
